Add Sugar and Simmer until Glows
by Elrith Rydrine
Summary: All of a sudden, America has taken a marked interest in England's cooking. Whatever could be the reason?


The smell of something burning had already reached the doorstep, wafting out in a putrid cloud the moment Alfred opened the door.

Even a certain familiarity with it did not stop him from stepping back, retching, momentarily overcome with nausea. Clearly, Arthur still hadn't lost his touch.

Over the years, Alfred had learned to treat the older man's culinary creations much as he did natural disasters: you avoided those which you could, and bore the rest with stoicism and a dash of heroic courage. Another similarity: both usually involved hospital trips.

Today, however, was different. Today, Alfred had willingly ventured into the lion's den, jumped up into the hurricane. Usually, England's cooking… well, the smell of it alone would give visitors ample warning to turn right around and avoid him for the next few hours. But today was special.

Today, Alfred was here on a mission (of justice and liberty and awesomeness, or so he liked to think).

"Arthur?", he called, in the most friendly tone he could given the squeamish feeling in his stomach.

When England didn't answer, he felt it safe to covertly shpritz the air around him with air freshener. Mmm, lemons.

"Arthur?"

"'M in the kitchen!"

So he was. Alfred stepped into the kitchen gingerly, watching his feet to avoid the scattered eggshells and splatters of … something. The something had made its way onto the ceiling, he noticed, and was dripping down in measured drops. What looked like liquid mustard ran down the window in lazy streams, adding a sharp, spicy smell to the mix of odors already suffocating him.

Alfred squinted at his reflection, blurred from the char and hazy through the cloud of smoke that seemed to hover in the room. He couldn't see if he looked as sick as he felt, but he hoped Arthur wouldn't notice if he did.

He shouldn't have worried though, because the Englishman was entirely occupied by a giant metallic pot standing atop the stove, boiling over. Armed with oven mitts, a bright red apron and a ladle that looked partially melted, Arthur was cursing and attempting to reach over the pot to turn the heat down. So far, his efforts had earned him a burnt hand and an ugly brown stain on his front.

"Do you need any help?", Alfred offered, knowing full well that the only help he could offer consisted of removing Arthur from the kitchen and ensuring the two never crossed paths again. Could one file restraining orders on behalf of kitchens? He would have to look into that.

"No, no, I'm fine", muttered Arthur, finally managing to reach the stove control with the ladle and turn the knob.

Slowly, the bubbling mixture in the pot settled, continuing to seethe but no longer splattering everything within a three meter radius with brown gunk. Examining it more closely, Alfred noticed that the mud colored mixture had a sheen to it much like gasoline (or was it more of an inner glow? It was hard to tell). Above the mixture, yellowish steam and smoke swirled together; for a moment, Alfred was sure he saw a skull form out of the wisps, but it dissolved just as fast.

Plastering a smile on his face and trying not to breathe too deeply – now that it was done, the thing gave off a strong smell of rotten eggs and fish left out in the sun too long, among other things – Alfred looked at Arthur and said, "Thanks, Arthur! It's… exactly what I wanted!"

Apparently, his honesty had moved Arthur, who was now beaming at him for all the wrong reasons.

"Oh. Good then. I have to admit, I was a little worried when I lost my stirring spoon in there, but it doesn't seem to have made much difference at all."

"I wouldn't worry about it, you're quite right about it making no difference", Alfred laughed weakly, eyeing the creation again. Did normal food move like that?

"Oh, I shan't. Of course, there was also the matter of the sugar - I was running short, but, somehow, I managed."

"You sure did.", Alfred began to feel his smile grow painfully strained, "What else did you put in there, huh?". He didn't want to chance someone making an antidote.

"Oh, come now, you know I can't tell you that. It wouldn't be a secret recipe if I did.", Arthur laughed, tapping him on the shoulder with the ladle. Alfred didn't have to look down to know it left a stain; he could feel the burning sensation through his shirt.

"No, it wouldn't". It ~would~ be the end to these hellish trips to Arthur's kitchen. Surely, his laboratories could reproduce this horror, and with all the appropriate precautions. In gaseous state, this could be his most elite bio weapon yet. And nobody knew what it ~was~ to ban it.

Alfred mentally patted himself on the back. Sure, his military had gotten some (ok, a lot) of funds cut after the last war, but he had found an effective and cheap weapon that only he thought to use. Sometimes, he even amazed himself.

Although, for now, he'd have to rely on Arthur for his supplies.

"Hey, thanks a lot for this, Arthur! You're the best, you know that?", Alfred grinned freely this time, and pulled the older man into a hug.

Released, Arthur blushed and muttered, "Well, anytime, since you can appreciate what I do, finally. I'd never thought I'd see so much good taste in you."

"Arthur, I appreciate this more than you know. Really. Hey, could I have some more next week?"

"Oh, if you must. Come visit on Monday.", Arthur blushed even redder, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, thanks Artie. I'll be sure to do that! I'll just put this in the Tupperware I brought and go. Hey, you know what, I'll even clean up for you! Just go and rest – you must have been on your feet all day making this!"

"Well, I mean- oh, all right. I'll see you soon then, Alfred."

Alfred patted himself on the back again. If he came just before tea time, Arthur was sure to take his leave when offered, leaving Alfred to get out his heavy duty gloves and gas mask in peace.

Spooning the mixture into reinforced containers marked toxic and quickly scurrying out, he left cleanup to his Hazmat team.

Outside, in the fresh air, he quickly whipped out his cell phone. Three rings later, he finally heard a voice answer with a sleepy 'da?'"

"Hi-ya, Ivan! How'd you like to come over for dinner? It's on me!"


End file.
